


in gold, blue and pale pink

by vwritesaus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BokuAka being supportive friends, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, KuroKen Christmas Exchange 2020, Kuroo is in love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Swearing, someone help him, spending the holidays together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vwritesaus/pseuds/vwritesaus
Summary: Kuroo is not sure exactly when this whole mess started, but he’s known of its existence for as long as he can remember. It comes and goes in varying shades of gold and saffron, warm and fragrant and blooming in spaces between his ribs, presenting itself at any given moment. He’s had it purring in his lap, licking at his hands, curling itself onto his chest at the first sign of a new dawn, weak rays streaking across silky fur, and pressing into his throat at the first gleam of a silver, starry twilight, eyes round and his face mirrored in a pool of bronzed brown.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36
Collections: Kuroken Christmas Exchange 2020





	in gold, blue and pale pink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wispywhat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wispywhat/gifts).



> hello!! first off, happy holidays!! hope your holidays are fun and joyful and that you're staying safe ♡ please take this poorly titled offering of Kuroo being in love. i hope you like it!! 
> 
> and a huge shout out to Kaa for betaing! ♡

When it comes down to the finer details, Kuroo is well aware that his father is an astute man. As a child, nothing Kuroo did—or didn’t do—went past his father’s radar, and most times he could pick out what his son was thinking even before he actually thought it. These kinds of moments always made Kuroo ponder on the possibility that his father was a wizard, or some being with magical abilities to read little children’s minds. He was  _ sure _ of it.

As it turns out, Kuroo is just a little bit too predictable in his mannerisms, even now at the tender age of twenty-four at the business end of December.

The holiday season had started around a week ago, and Kuroo had taken advantage of it to go out of the city centre and visit his father. They stand in the kitchen and partake in seamless conversation about the past few months they have been apart, Kuroo covered in a myriad of snowflakes—rare as they are for Tokyo—and his father donned in a thick cardigan. It’s as if Kuroo had never left; as if he was still a young boy who had just played outside in the snow, or just gotten home from his last day of school and ready to start the holidays. The only key differences now are that Kuroo stands a head taller than his old man, there’s alcohol in both their cups, and their topics range from the stock market to work woes, not about snow angels or Kuroo’s updated memorisation of the periodic table or what Kenma did at practice today.

Another difference is that Kuroo can barely fit under the kotatsu anymore, something he discovers when they move their discussion of his father’s latest morning chat with Maya-san next door to the living room. His father laughs at him, saying _guess you’re no longer a skinny little boy_ as Kuroo struggles to sit comfortably. In the end, he opts for seiza and groans into his cup of sake.

His father smiles at him, and Kuroo catches affection mixed with a nostalgia only parents possess when they’re in the presence of their children.

‘But enough about Fuku-chan,’ he starts, his explanation of Maya-san’s cat’s antics coming to a clear conclusion. ‘Tell me, Tetsurou—are you still in touch with Kenma?’

‘Of course,’ Kuroo tells him, smiling broadly. ‘He’s not getting rid of me that easily, Dad. Haven’t seen him in person much lately cause of work, but we’re still talking.’

Kuroo’s father lets out a breathy laugh and then hums pensively. Kuroo raises an expectant eyebrow at him, for he’s clearly thinking something.

‘Some things don’t change,’ he says fondly after a still moment. ‘You are still beating around the bush with him, aren’t you?’

Sighing softly, Kuroo’s eyes land on the gleaming surface of the kotatsu. His father never had it anything less than spotless and lemon-scented, and it makes a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. His father can berate him about his relationship with Kenma as much as he likes, for Kuroo’s not the only one who lets old habits die hard. He supposes it runs in the family.

But he cannot lie or avoid the topic for long. He’s tried it in the past, and not once has it worked out in his favour.

‘Maybe,’ Kuroo tells his father after a beat. ‘It’s hard.’

And it is. His father also knows it is, which is why Kuroo expects the sympathetic expression that overtakes his features. What he doesn’t expect is the sudden downturn of his mouth and the arms crossing over his chest.

‘You know, Tetsurou, you said the same thing last year.’ His father’s eyes remain firmly fixed on Kuroo’s face, and as much as Kuroo wants to avoid this conversation, he holds his gaze. ‘I know Kenma might be a little overwhelmed by the magnitude of being in a relationship given he’s never been in one, but you, my boy, cannot keep pushing aside your feelings. You’ll make yourself sick.’

Kuroo has heard this all before, of course, because the moment he had realised Kenma meant far more to him than a best friend was also the same moment he decided he’d never tell him.

(And perhaps that was due to the pure spite he felt due to Yaku calling him out on it in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing strategy meeting between the third years. Kuroo is not about to admit that Yaku, his friendly rival, is _right_. Six years and counting, and he still refuses to give him that satisfaction.)

‘I’m fine, Dad,’ is what he tells his father.

His father simply shakes his head, not at all convinced. Then he says something that makes Kuroo’s blood stop bubbling through his veins.

‘I was talking to Nayumi-san a few days ago, and she mentioned that you and Kenma were arriving home for the holidays separately.’ He fixes Kuroo with a sharp look. ‘As far as I recall, you told me that you’d be coming together.’

It’s at times like this that Kuroo wishes Kenma’s mother and his father weren’t so close. Trust Nayumi-san to spill all the details. Then again, Kuroo has the feeling that his father would have known even if she hadn’t told him anything. The implication is there: _did you fight? Are you telling me the truth?_

So he explains, ‘I got off work early. He didn’t. Some kind of event he couldn’t miss—was expected to be there. He told me to go ahead without waiting for him, and who was I to argue? But he’ll be home tomorrow.’

As his father raises an eyebrow, Kuroo’s mind goes elsewhere.

When on earth did he start using  _ home _ synonymously with Kenma? Has he always done that? Is this the first time he’s done it? It’s simply shocking, why would he even—?

‘Tetsurou.’ Kuroo pulls himself out of the jumbled mess in his head and gazes at his father. ‘Since when do you listen to anything Kenma tells you to do?’

‘Since now,’ Kuroo says with a chuckle. ‘He’s been a grump lately. Did not want to get on his bad side before the holidays.’

That’s what he tells his father, because that’s the kinder version. The meaner, more aching version is that he can’t bear to be around Kenma on his own. Not in these set of circumstances. So when Kenma had suggested that they meet up at home, Kuroo didn’t argue.

(And of course Kenma had noticed. Of course he had gaped at Kuroo’s seemingly aimless obedience, and of course he had said nothing. Of course he knows Kuroo better than anyone else, but when it comes to shit like this, _god_ , he’s a clueless bastard. But thankfully he had known not to pry or question Kuroo’s acceptance of his proposal; he had just nodded his head and shot him a small smile that went straight to Kuroo’s heart.

(Because while he can pretend that Yaku’s impression of Kuroo being in love with Kenma is _wrong_ , he cannot do it in front of Kenma. And given the holiday season is notorious for grand gestures of affection and submitting to the desire to confess long-time-held emotions, Kuroo knows that is not an option for him. The last thing he wants is to push Kenma away for good.)

At Kuroo’s words, his father breathes out deeply and claps his hands together.

_Uh oh_ , he thinks. _Is he—?_

‘Well then,’ his father begins, ‘perhaps the best way to cure your love sickness is to make you think about something else. Or _someone_ else. I heard one of our neighbours down the road has their daughter coming home for the holidays. She’s your age, I believe. Should we introduce you to each other?’

_Yes,_ Kuroo thinks. _He is_.

It’s hysterical, really, because if there’s anyone Kuroo learned to be provocative and sly from, it’s his father. He knows it’s a joke, can pick up all the tell-tale signs of it being a Kuroo-special, including twitching eyebrows and a jumping muscle at one corner of the mouth.

Since he’s learned from the master, Kuroo knows how to spike back.

‘And here I was thinking you were progressive, old man,’ he quips. ‘Matchmaker? Really?’

His father’s reaction is instantaneous and as planned. His nostrils flare and his eyebrows fly to his receding hairline, but his mouth curls at the corners.

‘Who are you calling “old man”, boy?’ he cries, swiping at his laughing son half-heartedly. ‘I’m younger than ever! I don’t feel a day over forty-five!’

‘Add another ten years to that, Dad,’ Kuroo mutters loud enough for his father to hear.

‘You _wound_ me, Tetsurou!’

Kuroo slaps a hand to his chest and barks out a laugh, and soon enough, his father joins in.

Kids used to ask him at school what it’s like not having a mother around. He used to think and overthink the answers every time, when in reality it didn’t feel any different. He had his father and he wouldn’t have had it any other way, not when they could talk to each other like this, tease each other like this, not have to worry about the small things like not having a woman in the house.

_It’s nice_ , he thinks, _being free like this. Wish I could feel like this every day when Dad’s not around_.

A little voice sings to him from the back of his head, grabbing him by the wrists and dragging him into a place he’s _not_ keen on heading towards.

_You can have that and more if you’re just honest with Kenma._

* * *

Kuroo is not sure exactly when this whole mess started, but he’s known of its existence for as long as he can remember. It comes and goes in varying shades of gold and saffron, warm and fragrant and blooming in spaces between his ribs, presenting itself at any given moment. He’s had it purring in his lap, licking at his hands, curling itself onto his chest at the first sign of a new dawn, weak rays streaking across silky fur, and pressing into his throat at the first gleam of a silver, starry twilight, eyes round and his face mirrored in a pool of bronzed brown.

The situation is horrifically poetic and Kuroo should have words with a certain Akaashi Keiji if this continues. All his nonsense musings about his _star_ have rubbed off on Kuroo, and even though he’s—as his father would say—“head over heels in love” with his best friend, this is pushing the fragile threads of his resolve towards breaking point.

But as he lies in his bed in the room he’d grown up in, the first lines of the moon seeping through his wavering curtains, Kuroo accepts that this _has_ gotten to an Akaashi level of poetic. Horribly tragic, for his heart crying for Kenma is a call he cannot answer.

He turns on his side and punches his pillow into shape. He’ll deal with his out-of-control puppy love in the morning with a cup of green tea and breakfast; and just like that, he falls into a restless slumber, dreams rife with buried, sentimental memories.

* * *

_‘D’you ever think you’ll settle down?’_

_‘I don’t think so. Seems kinda stringent. What about you?’_

_‘I’d like to, and I doubt it’ll be as stringent as you say. But it’s gotta be with the right person, you know.’_

_‘Right person… dedicating your life to another person seems impossible, not to mention unappealing.’_

_‘Only if you make it! Love should be easy, don’t you think?’_

_‘Can’t say I’ve ever had the feeling, so I don’t know. Is that really what you think, Kuro?’_

_‘Yeah. Loving someone shouldn’t feel like a job, but it shouldn’t be perfect. Love’s complicated like that. It’s worth it.’_

_‘Sounds tiring.’_

_‘You’re so negative, Kenma, geez. The day might come when you’ll see for yourself that what I’m saying is right.’_

_‘I doubt it, but sure, okay.’_

_‘It will._

_‘Maybe.’_

_‘It will.’_

_‘Maybe.’_

_‘It will.’_

_‘Kuro.’_

_‘It will. Just wait. When you turn twenty like me, you’ll see.’_

_‘Kuro, you_ just _turned twenty. Don’t be smart.’_

_‘But I am!’_

_‘I swear—’_

* * *

Kenma arrives the next day with a series of raps on the door to the Kuroo residence around lunchtime. Concentration buried at the task at hand—and at the horrible realisation that he’s  _ late _ with everything—Kuroo doesn’t hear his father answer the door or the muffled greetings beyond the kitchen walls. He doesn’t take note of his father’s  _ Tetsurou, Kenma-kun is here! _ as the timer goes off for the second batch of gingerbread baking in the oven, diverting his attention from the chocolate pudding mixture on the stove to the oven in front of him.

Just as he swaps it out with the third and final tray, he blows out a short breath and hears, ‘God, look at you,’ as a hello.

Kuroo turns around and sees Kenma leaning on the archway, shrouded in a bright red, oversized hoodie and hair long over his shoulders. There’s only a slight amount of blond at the ends, but the natural black colour causes the amused gold staring at him to stand out even more than usual. It makes him grin hugely, because it’s honestly one of his most favourite sights: a pair of twin stars against the ink of night.

_ Oh, fuck you, Akaashi. _

Kenma shakes his head as he walks up to stand next to him. ‘You’re so…  _ domestic. _ ’

‘Shut up,’ Kuroo rebuts, bumping his hip into Kenma’s side.

Kenma laughs softly and bumps it back. ‘It’s nice.’

‘Oh, is it?’ Kuroo switches off the flame and aims a chocolate-covered spoon at Kenma’s nose. ‘Fantasy of yours, babe?’

‘You fucking wish,’ Kenma grumbles, snatching the spoon from Kuroo’s fingers, who laughs and cracks out an _oi, gimme that, you gremlin!_ ‘Just for that, you should make me an apple pie.’

Kuroo grins something fierce and wordlessly points to the counter behind Kenma. Kenma follows the direction of his finger and visibly stills as he no doubt takes it in: a steaming, freshly baked apple pie still in its tray. He shoots Kuroo an incredulous look over his shoulder before he hands back the spoon and goes towards the cinnamon-infused pastry.

(What he doesn’t tell Kenma is that it is the third attempt just that morning and that he is royally behind schedule because of it. But anything for Kenma, right? Anything to see a smile on that face he’s known since they were kids.)

‘Happy holidays,’ is what he says out loud. ‘And there’s ice-cream in the freezer to go with it, although why you want to have ice-cream this time of year escapes me. But it’s there.’

Kenma doesn’t look back at him, but Kuroo knows he heard him just from the slight tilt at the edge of his mouth. He hears the shy murmur of _yeah… you too_. _And thank you, Kuro_ and quickly turns back to the stove, heart soaring in his chest and his blood rushing to his face, albeit with a grin stretching across his mouth.

Yes. This should be a good holiday season.

* * *

_‘So are you and Kenma together yet?’_

_‘Um, hello to you too? And no?’_

_‘Bro, c’mon! The guy’s the love of your life!’_

_‘And? But did you really just call me to talk about Kenma? What do you want?’_

_‘What makes you think I want something? Can’t I just check up on my favourite bro?’_

_‘Bo.’_

_‘I’m serious! Ji saw Kenma recently to talk birthday stuff for Lev’s twentieth, and said they were talkin’ about you for ages! Just wanted to see if you’d finally confessed.’_

_‘No… I haven’t. And I don’t plan to.’_

_‘Kuroo…’_

_‘Just leave it, Bokuto. Guy’s not interested in that stuff. Anyway, how are you and Akaashi?’_

_‘Great! Ji’s at work right now. But are you sure you’re okay?’_

_‘Yeah.’ No._ _‘I will be. Thanks for checking in though. Wanna grab lunch later this week? Haven’t seen your ugly mug in a while.’_

_‘Look in your own mirror for that. But yes! Hey, let’s go to that bar you like.’_

_‘Sounds good, Bo. See you then.’_

_‘Bye! And please confess, okay?’_

_‘Bokuto—’_

Beep. Beep. Beep.

_Don’t make me get my hopes up…_

* * *

Christmas comes in a flash this year. In the past, Kuroo would watch the world around him cascade into chaos three days before the day, go into the shopping centres lined with red and gold tinsel, bulbous baubles and blinking fairy lights and wonder what it was about this holiday that was so special that it caused the world to shut down.

He still doesn’t really get it, but if it allows some quiet time away from work and everyday life, to let him reset and anticipate the New Year traditions without being bogged down with deadlines, he’ll take it.

The Kuroos have never done anything for the holiday other than have Kenma around, or vice versa. That unspoken tradition continues this year as Kuroo and Kenma occupy the bathroom opposite Kuroo’s room. Kenma is seated upon a small stool, a dark green towel wrapped around his shoulders and his phone beeping in his hands. Kuroo stands behind him, black gloves on his hands, a brush between one set of fingers and a small black bowl in another. He swirls the brush into the mixture sitting in the bowl before setting the bowl on the sink and taking a small piece of Kenma’s hair.

Just as he covers the length, there’s a repeated set of high-pitched beeps coming from Kenma’s phone.

‘Did you die again?’ he asks.

‘Dragon caught me by surprise.’ Kenma shifts as he puts his phone into his hoodie pocket. ‘I’ll try again later.’

‘That means you’ve given up,’ Kuroo states, snickering when Kenma tuts in response. ‘What, it’s true! I know you.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Ugh.’

Hissing out a sound of victory, Kuroo reaches over to grab the little black bowl from the sink and assesses how much hair he has left to bleach. While he doesn’t mind doing it, there has been a question pressing at the back of his mind since he started doing this a few minutes ago.

‘So remind me why you don’t go to a salon to do this?’ Kuroo asks and dips the brush into the off-white concoction.

‘Because you’re cheaper,’ Kenma replies and Kuroo lets out a splutter.

‘Wow, no hesitation. I’m wounded!’

He doesn’t need to see Kenma’s face to know that he’s rolling his eyes. Despite the insult, Kuroo takes another section of hair and lathers the lightener onto it in practiced motions, careful to avoid the roots. It’s surprisingly soothing, and incredibly satisfying watching black turn into white. He’s done this so many times now that it’s second nature to him to know exactly how long it takes for the hair to process and how it’s important to leave the roots for last.

(A botched first attempt and a horrified Kenma made him never forget that.)

There’s a moment of silence as Kuroo works on Kenma’s hair, broken only by a bout of humming from Kuroo and the tap of plastic whenever he picks up the bowl and puts it back.

Then there’s a cough and a deep inhale.

‘I prefer it when you do it.’ Kenma’s voice is so quiet that Kuroo almost doesn’t hear him. ‘It turns out better for some reason. Plus you don’t fry my hair, so…’

There’s a pregnant pause.

‘Didn’t know you felt like that, babe!’ Kuroo crows, leaning over Kenma’s shoulder to smack a purposefully loud kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m so honoured!’

Kenma groans and makes a show of wiping his cheek in disgust. Kuroo laughs loudly, nearly dropping the brush onto the floor as he clutches his stomach.

‘Shut up,’ Kenma grumbles, ‘and finish the rest before I have three different shades of yellow.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Kuroo announces, dancing out of the way when Kenma turns around and swipes at him. ‘Hey, don’t kill your hairdresser before your hair’s done, bastard!’

‘You’re a bastard.’

‘No, you.’

‘You.’

‘You are.’

They continue to bicker, Kuroo dyeing Kenma’s hair and Kenma wriggling in his seat in preparation to fully turn around and fulfil his unspoken threat of giving Kuroo a sore hip.

(In the end, once the lightener is washed out and toner applied, the pleased look on Kenma’s face is worth Kuroo’s aching fingers and jumping heart. And it’s then that he remembers with a violent stab to his chest that Christmas is also a couple’s season.

How he is going to survive this holiday season as a single man in love with a man whose hair is now blond again, he doesn’t know.)

* * *

_‘Hey. How’d you know that Bokuto was the one?’_

_‘I didn’t. Not at first, anyway. Why do you ask?’_

_‘No reason.’_

_‘So not to do with Kenma-san?’_

_‘Not at all.’_

_‘You’re not subtle, Kuroo-san.’_

_‘Whatever, forget I asked.’_

_‘Kuroo-san. I won’t tell Koutarou.’_

_‘Thanks… So?’_

_‘Yes… I suppose there was some kind of underlying feeling that only really made itself known when Koutarou graduated. It was like someone threw a volleyball in my face and called it a day. Just said “yeah, hi, you’re in love, deal with it,” and left. My night sky became starless because my main star just vanished from my eyes.’_

_‘I’ll never understand how your mind works… but I think I understand what you mean.’_

_‘Ah, I apologise. I’ve heard it’s different for everyone.’_

_‘It’s fine. Has—has Kenma ever said anything to you?’_

_‘Not really. Although, he did give me some good advice on how to deal with Koutarou’s sudden departure. Said he knew how that felt. I don’t know if that’s any indication?’_

_‘Kinda. That’s just Kenma in general.’_

_‘Or…’_

_‘Or?’_

_‘It’s his way of saying that he misses you. Take it from another person who keeps their feelings to themselves.’_

_‘As nice as that is, that was six years ago.’_

_‘It would help if you just talk to him, Kuroo-san. Aren’t you two going home for the holidays this year?’_

_‘Yeah. What are you suggesting?’_

_‘Tell him then. You’ll be in a place you’re both familiar with, in a place you grew up in together. Anything is possible. Keep an open mind. You might surprise yourself.’_

_‘We’ll see, Akaashi. We’ll see…’_

_I’m just happy he’s in my life. What more do I need?_

* * *

There is an open ice rink not too far from their homes, complete with pastel walls and screaming children this time of year. Tired parents and young couples in love (no doubt on their first date) make up the majority of the adults circling the shaved ice floor, the kids weaving between and around their legs with nothing short of pure, unbridled joy. The trees surrounding the barricade are lit up with three different shades of blue, casting a gentle glow onto the bright ice and amalgamation of coats, scarves and beanies.

The glow reaches both Kuroo and Kenma as they take a seat on a bench opposite the rink. Kuroo has never gotten the hang of ice-skating, and his legs feel like jelly and his bum is sore from the fall he had taken on the ice not ten minutes ago. Kenma had laughed at him the entire time, commenting that he looked like a newborn fawn walking for the first time, but had helped him up and held his hands as they had skated around for a good hour. It makes the sore bum worth it.

Now, he’s glad to be sitting down—and on proper, stable ground—groaning as he leans onto the backing of the bench. His breath leaves him in a cloud of dissipating white, and catches Kenma’s out of the corner of his eye.

‘That was fun,’ Kenma says. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ Kuroo replies. ‘But you’ll have to carry me home. Everything hurts!’

‘Wuss.’

‘Hey!’

Kenma chuckles and looks out towards the skaters. Kuroo would do the same if it weren’t for the sudden patch of light that streaks over the bone of Kenma’s cheek. It seeps into his hair, brushing against his eyelashes, highlighting his eyes from the bottom; a snowflake flying too close to the sun.

He’s beautiful. 

_This really isn’t healthy, shit—_

‘Kuro?’

He blinks and notices Kenma staring at him. Coughing and averting his gaze, Kuroo tries to cover up with a lame _thought there was something on your face_ , and judging from the snort that fills the space between them, Kuroo knows he doesn’t believe him.

But what he hears instead of _wow, terrible cover_ is, ‘Hey, listen. I’ve got something for you.’

That makes Kuroo meet Kenma’s eyes, eyebrows flying into his hair in surprise. Kenma narrows his lids, as if saying _what is so surprising about this_ but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he tucks a loose strand behind his ear and clears his throat.

‘I was saving this for New Year’s, but I want to give it to you now.’

Kuroo frowns in confusion as Kenma reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a rectangular package carefully wrapped in brown paper. He grips it in both hands as he turns to face Kuroo; Kuroo notes a soft dusting of red overtaking Kenma’s nose and logs it in his head that they should probably go home soon. Kenma holds the package out to Kuroo, who takes it carefully with a murmured yet puzzled _thank you_.

He almost doesn’t want to open it in fear of tearing the paper even though there’s nothing particularly exciting about it. But at Kenma’s  _ go on _ , Kuroo gently pries the tape from the paper and soon enough, the paper falls away and he’s staring at the contents with wide eyes.

In the palms of his hands sits an omamori charm, pale pink and embroidered with gold lettering. The delicate fabric is soft as he runs his thumbs over it, and the stitching bumpy as they run over the characters sitting in the middle. The kanji is hard to miss, but the meaning makes no sense. Kuroo has seen this kind of omamori before, on the bags and backpacks belonging to the girls from his former high school and university, and has seen matching blue ones on their boyfriends’ bags.

‘Kenma…?’ It comes out as a whisper and Kuroo cannot tear his eyes away from the object in his hands, too stunned at the possibility of… if this is what he thinks it is… oh god. ‘I don’t—’

‘Look, I’m just gonna say this once, so please listen?’ Kenma interrupts. He breathes in and whispers, ‘I love you.’

Kuroo smiles slightly and says, ‘I love you too, Kenma. But this is…’ He lifts his hands as a means of explanation. ‘This is something else…’

‘No.’ Kuroo glances up and sees Kenma pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. ‘No, that’s not—that’s not what I meant.’

Everything stops. Even though the skaters are still going and there are people passing them by, everything stops. Kuroo’s heartbeat thunders in his ears in desperate hope that he is taking Kenma’s words the right way because what else is that  _ supposed _ to mean other than—no, surely not?

‘I don’t know when it happened,’ Kenma says hurriedly, and Kuroo can only stare at him as he rambles, ‘I don’t know how it happened, but it did. My stupid heart wants you… as more than just a friend. Like… a friend… and something else.’

Kuroo’s mouth falls open. He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t look at Kenma’s face—adorable as it is with the dusted red that is a  _ blush _ , god dammit—can’t breathe; can only drop his eyes to the pale pink charm and scan over the kanji again to make sure that this is not some sick dream he’s having to overcome the urge to confess every time he and Kenma share proximity.

But Kenma continues to speak and all other noise—the laughter, the screech of ice, the traffic around the area—shuts off.

‘I know I said some time ago that I wasn’t interested in this kinda stuff. To be honest, I’m still not, but… there’s something different here. It’s like we skipped all that first date nonsense and just jumped straight into this. Hah, if anything, you were the one who was awkward—all shy and quiet. But we got past that, and you’re still my best friend—but I don’t know, I was talking to Akaashi one day and he said something about Bokuto that made me think of you. Suddenly I wanted whatever it was that happened with Bokuto to have happened to you… and I wanted to be the reason why.

‘I just. None of this makes no sense, but you were right: love is complicated and not perfect. But it’s nice and it’s not hard for us and—are you crying?’

‘Yes.’

Yes, Kuroo’s crying. His hands are shaking and the kanji is blurry as tears fill his vision. He clutches the omamori and brings to his chest, swallowing thickly to stop the sob that wants to escape him. He’s in public—he can’t cry here. No, he’ll cry properly at home while clinging to Kenma and blubbering to his father that he got a pale pink omamori from his _boyfriend_ —

Oh god.

Sucking in a trembling breath, Kuroo glances at Kenma, taking in round, worried eyes and a hesitant hand reaching out for his shoulder. When it touches the fabric of his coat, a few tears spill over and he smiles.

‘I love you,’ he croaks out.

Kenma gapes at him, and his expression softens after a second.

‘Yeah,’ he whispers, sliding down the bench until their knees are touching. ‘Me too.’

‘I’m never getting rid of this,’ Kuroo tells him, showing him the omamori. ‘This is staying with me forever, I don’t care how tattered it gets.’

‘You know that’s not how they work,’ Kenma chastises lightly. ‘We’ll get a new one.’

‘No way. This is staying even if it’s just a string left.’

Kenma laughs and Kuroo beams. He says that he’ll get Kenma a matching one on New Year’s, they’ll make a day of it, maybe see some olds friends for lunch afterwards, and the way Kenma’s eyes sparkle at the idea makes his heart escape through his coat and fly amongst the flurry of tiny snowflakes beginning to fall from the sky; it catapults into the stratosphere when Kenma uncurls the fingers of one hand from the charm and slots his own between them, palms pressed together and skin soft, slightly cold.

It’s a hand he’s held countless times over the years. He remembers the way Bokuto had gushed about holding Akaashi’s hand for the first time, the way their fingers seemed to fit just right and how nice and warm and perfect it was. Kuroo had laughed at him, saying he’s held his hand so many times before—what was so different then? Now he can understand. Kenma’s hand is familiar, but there’s something new lingering between their fingers.

And when Kenma peeks up at him through his hair, a shy grin paired with a gentle thumb running under the skin of Kuroo’s eye, Kuroo melts, content, ready to embrace whatever is blooming in the chill of the winter.

Maybe Akaashi was right about some things, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vwritesaus/)
> 
> stay safe everyone ♡


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